


Beauty and The Bastard

by BruiserweightFanatic



Category: WWE, World Wrestling Entertainment, wrestling - Fandom
Genre: Alternate Universe, Casual office sex, F/M, Love Hate Story, Non-Wrestling
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2018-10-30
Updated: 2018-10-30
Packaged: 2019-08-14 18:37:16
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 2
Words: 6,697
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/16498061
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/BruiserweightFanatic/pseuds/BruiserweightFanatic
Summary: Pete England has returned to Chicago from Birmingham to take a vital role in his family's massive media business. He never expected that the assistant who'd been helping him from abroad was the gorgeous—completely infuriating—creature he now has to see every day.





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> I posted this story on FanFiction at first, and decided to post it here as well. 
> 
> I’ve had a crackship for Paige x Pete for the longest and finally created something for these two in a AU verse. Fair warning there’s smut and lots of in this series, you’ve been warned. 
> 
> Enjoy.

### Mr. England 

My father always said the way to learn the job you want is to spend every second watching someone do it.

"To get the job at the top, you've got to start at the bottom," he told me. "Become the person the CEO can't live without. Be their right-hand man. Learn their world, and they'll snatch you up the second you finish your degree."

I had become irreplaceable. And I'd definitely become the Right Hand. It just so happened that in this case, I was the right hand that most days wanted to slap the damn face.

My boss, Mr. Peter England. Beautiful Bastard.

My stomach clenched tightly at the thought of him: tall, gorgeous, and entirely evil. He was the most self-righteous, pompous prick I'd ever met. I'd hear all of the other women in the office gossip about his escapades and wonder if a nice face was all it took. But my father also said, "You realize early in life that beauty is only skin-deep, and ugly goes straight to the bone." I'd had my fair share of unpleasant men in the past few years, dated a few in secondary school and uni. But this one took the cake.

"Well, hello Miss Knight." Mr. England stood in the doorway to my office that served as an anteroom to his. His thick Brummie accent was laced with honey, but it was all wrong . . . like honey left to freeze and crack on ice.

After spilling water on my phone, dropping my earrings into the garbage disposal, being rear-ended on the interstate, and having to wait for the cops to come and tell us what we both already knew—that it was the other guy's fault—the last thing I needed this morning was a grumpy Mr. England.

Too bad for me he didn't come in any other flavor.

I gave him my usual. "Good morning, Mr. England," hoping he would give me his usual curt nod in return.

But when I tried to slip past him, he murmured, "Indeed? 'Morning,' Miss Knight? What time is it in your little world?"

I stopped and met his cold stare. Without the heels he was a good three inches taller than me, and before working for him I'd never felt so small. I'd worked for England Media Group for six years. But since his return to the family business nine months ago, I'd taken to wearing heels just so I could approach him near eye level.

"I had a bit of a disaster morning. It won't happen again," I said, relieved that my voice came out steady. I had never been late, not once, but leave it to him to make a thing of it the first time it happened. I managed to slip past him, put my purse and coat in my closet, and power up my computer. I tried to act like he wasn't standing in the doorway, watching every move I made.

"'Disaster morning' is quite an apt description for what I've had to deal with in your absence. I spoke to William Regal personally to smooth over the fact that he didn't get the signed contracts when promised: nine a.m., East Coast time. I had to call Stephanie McMahon personally to let her know we were, in fact, going to proceed with the proposal as written. In other words, I've done your job and mine this morning. Surely, even with a 'disaster morning' you can manage eight a.m.? Some of us get up and start workin' before the brunch hour."

I glanced at him, antagonizing me, glaring, arms crossed over his broad chest—and all because I was an hour late. I blinked away, very deliberately not staring at the way his dark tailored suit stretched across his shoulders. I had made the mistake of visiting the hotel gym during a convention the first month we worked together and walked in to find him sweaty and shirtless next to the treadmill. He had a beautifully unpolished face; feral and scarred, and incredible hair that he kept nearly combed up in one of those fashionable high-knots. The kind of hair you'd want to pull during a good fuck. That's what the girls downstairs claimed, and according to them, it earned its title. The image of him wiping his chest with his shirt was forever burned into my brain.

Of course, he'd had to ruin it by opening his mouth: "It's nice to see you finally takin' an interest in your physical fitness, Miss Knight."

Cunt.

"I'm sorry, Mr. England," I said with just a hint of bite. "I understand the burden I placed on you by making you manage a fax machine and pick up a telephone. As I mentioned, it won't happen again."

"You're right, it won't," he replied, cocky smirk firmly in place.

If only he would keep his mouth shut, he'd be perfect. A piece of duct tape would do the trick. I had some in my desk that I'd occasionally pull out and fondle, hoping someday I could put it to good use.

"And just so ya' don't allow this incident to slip your memory, I'd like to see the full status tables for the Regal, Saint, and McMahon projects on my desk by five. And then you're going to make up the hour lost this morning by doin' a mock board presentation of the Levesque account for me in the conference room at six. If you're going to manage this account, you're goin' to prove to me that ya' know what the bloody hell you're doing."

My eyes widened as I watched him turn away, slamming his office door behind him. He knew damn well that I was ahead of schedule with this project, which also served as my MBA thesis. I still had months to finish my slides once the contracts were signed . . . which they weren't—they hadn't even been fully drafted. Now, with everything else on my plate, he wanted me to put together a mock board presentation in . . . I looked at my watch. Great, seven and a half hours, if I skipped lunch. I opened the Levesque file and got down to it.

* * *

As everyone began filtering out for lunch, I remained glued to my desk with my coffee and a bag of trail mix I'd bought from the vending machine. Normally I'd bring leftovers or leave with the other interns to grab something, but time was not on my side today. I heard the outer office door open and looked up, smiling as Amanda Saccomanno walked in. Mandy was in the same MBA internship program at England Media Group that I was, though she worked in accounting.

"Ready for lunch?" she asked.

"I'm gonna have to skip it. This is the day from hell." I looked at her apologetically, and her smile turned into a smirk.

"Day from hell, or boss from hell?" She took a seat on the edge of my desk. "I heard he was on a bit of a rampage this morning."

I gave her a knowing look. Mandy didn't work for him, but she knew all about Peter England. As the youngest son of company founder Thomas England, and with a notoriously short fuse, he was a living legend in the building. "Even if there were two of me, I wouldn't be able to get this finished in time."

"You sure you don't want me to bring you back something?" Her eyes moved in the direction of his office. "A hit man? Some holy water?"

I laughed. "I'm good."

Mandy smiled and left the office. I'd just finished off the last of my coffee when I bent down, noting a run in my stockings. "And on top of everythin' else," I began, hearing Mandy return, "I've already snagged these. Actually, if you're goin' somewhere there's chocolate, bring me back fifty pounds, so I can eat my feelings later."

I glanced up and saw that it wasn't Mandy standing there. My cheeks flushed red and I pulled my skirt back down.

"I'm sorry, Mr. England, I—"

"Miss Knight, since you and the other office girls have plenty of time to discuss problematic lingerie, in addition to putting together the Levesque presentation, I need you to also run down to the Gallagher office and retrieve the market analysis and segmentation for McMahon." He adjusted his collar, looking at his reflection in my window. "Do you think you can manage that?"

Did he just call me an "office girl"? Sure, as part of my internship I often did some basic assistant work for him, but he knew damn well I had worked for this company for years before receiving a JT Miller scholarship to Northwestern. I was four months away from getting my business degree.

Getting my degree and getting the hell out from under you, I thought. I looked up to meet his blazing eyes. "I'll be happy to ask Mandy if she—"

"It wasn't a suggestion," he cut me off. "I'd like you to pick them up." He gazed at me for a moment with a clenched jaw before turning on his heel and storming back to his office, pulling the door closed roughly behind him.

What the fuck was his problem? Was slamming doors like a teenager really necessary? I grabbed my blazer from the back of the chair and began making my way to our satellite office a few buildings down.

When I returned, I knocked on his door but there was no response. I tried the knob. Locked. He was probably having a late-afternoon quickie with some trust fund princess while I ran around Los Angeles like an insane person. I shoved the manila folder through the mail slot, hoping the papers scattered everywhere and he'd have to get down and sort them himself. Would serve him right. I rather liked the image of him on his knees on the floor, gathering scattered documents. Then again, knowing him, he would call me into that sterile hellhole to clean it up while he watched.

* * *

Four hours later I had the status updates complete, my slides mostly in order, and I was almost hysterically laughing with how awful this day was. I found myself plotting a very bloody and drawn-out murder of the kid at The Copy Stop. A simple job, that's all I had asked. Make some copies, bind some things. Should have been a piece of cake. In and out. But no. It had taken two hours.

I raced down the darkened hall of the now-empty building, the presentation materials clutched haphazardly in my arms, and glanced at my watch. Six twenty. Mr. England was going to have my arse. I was twenty minutes late. As I experienced this morning, he hated late. "Late" was a word not found in the Peter England Dickhead Dictionary. Along with "heart," "kindness," "compassion," "lunch break," or "thank you."

So there I was, running through the empty halls in my stilt-like Italian pumps, racing to the executioner.

Breathe, Paige. He can smell fear.

As I neared the conference room, I tried to calm my breathing and slowed to a walk. Soft light shone from beneath the closed door. He was definitely in there, waiting for me. Carefully, I attempted to smooth my hair and clothing while tidying the bundle of documents in my arms. Taking a deep breath, I knocked on the door.

"Come in."

I walked into the warmly lit space. The conference room was huge; one wall was filled with floor-to-ceiling windows that gave a beautiful view of the Chicago cityscape from eighteen stories up. Dusk darkened the sky outside, and skyscrapers speckled the horizon with their lighted windows. In the center of the room stood a large heavy wood conference table, and facing me from the head of the table was Mr. England.

He sat there, suit jacket hanging on the chair behind him, tie loosened, crisp white shirtsleeves rolled up to his elbows, and chin resting on his steepled fingers. His glacier optics were boring into mine, but he said nothing.

"Apologies, Mr. England," I said, my voice wavering with my still labored breathing, "The print job took—" I stopped. Excuses wouldn't help my situation. And besides, I wasn't going to let him blame me for something I had no control over. He could kiss my arse. With my newfound bravery in place, I lifted my chin and walked over to where he sat.

Without meeting his gaze, I sorted through my papers and placed a copy of the presentation on the table before us.

"Are you ready for me to begin?"

He didn't respond aloud, his eyes piercing my brave front. This would be a lot easier if he wasn't so gorgeous. Instead, he gestured toward the materials before him, urging me to continue.

I cleared my throat and began my presentation. As I moved through the different aspects of the proposal, he stayed silent, staring directly at his copy. Why was he so calm? His temper tantrums I could handle. But the eerie silence? It was unnerving.

I was leaning over the table, gesturing toward a set of graphs, when it happened.  
"Their timeline for the first milestone is a little ambi—" I stopped midsentence, my breath caught in my throat. His hand pressed gently into my lower back before sliding down, settling on the curve of my ass. In the nine months I had worked for him, he had never intentionally touched me.

This was most definitely intentional.

The heat from his hand burned through my skirt and into my skin. Every muscle in my body tensed, and it felt like my insides were liquefying. What the hell was he doing? My brain screamed at me to push his hand off, to tell him to never touch me again, but my body had other ideas. My nipples hardened, and I clenched my jaw in response. Traitor nipples.

While my heart pounded in my chest, at least half a minute passed, and neither of us said anything as his hand moved down to my thigh, caressing. Our breathing and the muted noise of the city below were the only sounds in the still air of the conference room.

"Turn around, Miss Knight." His quiet voice broke the silence and I straightened my back, eyes facing forward. Slowly I turned, his hand skimming across me and sliding to my hip. I could feel the way his hand spread from his fingertips on my lower back all the way to where his thumb pressed against the soft skin just in front of my hipbone. I looked to meet his eyes, which looked intently back at me.

I could see his chest rising and falling, each breath deeper than the last. A muscle twitched in his sharp jaw as his thumb began to move, slowly sliding back and forth, his eyes never leaving mine. He was waiting for me to stop him; there had been plenty of time for me to shove him away, or simply turn and leave. But I had too many feelings to sort out before I could react. I had never felt this way, and I had never expected to feel this about him. I wanted to slap him, and then pull him up by his shirt and lick his neck.

"What are you thinking?" he whispered, eyes somehow both mocking and anxious.

"I'm still tryin' to figure that out."

With those eyes still locked to mine, he began to slide his hand lower. His fingers ran down my thigh, to the hem of my skirt. He moved it up so his fingertips traced the strap of my garter belt, the lace edge of one thigh-high stocking. A thick finger slipped beneath the thin fabric and pulled it down slightly. I sucked in a sharp breath, feeling suddenly like I was melting from the outside in.

How could I let my body react like this? I still wanted to slap him, but now, more than that, I wanted him to keep going. The heavy ache between my legs was building. He reached the edge of my panties and slipped his fingers under the fabric. I felt him slide against my skin and graze my clit before pushing his finger inside me, and I bit my lip trying, unsuccessfully, to stifle my groan. When I looked down at him, beads of sweat were forming on his brow.

"Fuck," he growled quietly. "You're wet."

His eyes fell closed and he seemed to be waging the same internal battle I was. I glanced down at his lap and could see him straining against the smooth fabric of his pants. Without opening his eyes, he withdrew his finger and fisted the thin lace of my panties in his hand. He was shaking as he looked up at me, fury clear in his expression. In one quick movement he tore them off, the rip of the fabric echoing in the silence.

He pulled my hips roughly, lifting me up onto the cold table and spreading my legs in front of him. I gave an involuntary groan as his fingers returned, sliding between my legs and pushing into me again. I despised this man in a singularly sharp way, but my body was betraying me; I craved more of what he was doing. Damn if he wasn't good at this. His weren't the gentle loving touches I was accustomed to. Here was a man used to getting what he wanted, and it turned out that right now, what he wanted was me. My head fell to the side as I leaned back on my elbows, feeling my impending orgasm approaching fast.

To my absolute horror I actually whimpered, "Oh, please."

He stopped moving, pulling his fingers back and holding them in a fist before him. I sat up, grabbing the collar of his shirt and pulling his mouth roughly against mine. His lips felt as perfect as they looked, firm and smooth. I'd never been kissed by someone who clearly knew every single angle and dip and teasing move to make me almost completely lose my mind.

I bit his lower lip as my hands made quick work down to the front of his pants, whipping his belt free of the loops. "You better be ready to finish what you started."

He made a low, angry noise deep in his throat and took my blouse in his hands, ripping it open, the silver buttons skittering across the long conference table.

He slid his hands up my ribs and over my breasts, thumbs slipping back and forth across my taut nipples, his dark stare fixated on my expression the entire time. His hands were big, and rough almost to the point of pain, but instead of wincing or backing off, I pushed into his palms wanting more, and harder.

He growled, fingers tightening. It occurred to me I might bruise, and for a sick moment I hoped I did. I wanted a way to remember this feeling, of being completely sure of what my body wanted, entirely unleashed.

He leaned close enough to bite my shoulder, whispering, "You fuckin' tease."  
Unable to get close enough, I quickened my pace on his zipper, shoving his pants and his boxers to the floor. I gave his cock a hard squeeze, feeling him pulse against my palm.

The way he hissed my last name—"Knight"—should have sent a rush of fury through me, but I only felt one thing right now: pure, unadulterated lust. He forced my skirt up my thighs and pushed me back on the conference table. Before I could utter a single word, he took hold of my ankles, grabbed his cock, and took a step forward, thrusting deep inside me.

I couldn't even be horrified by the loud moan I let out—he felt better than anything.

"What's that?" he hissed through clenched teeth, his hips slapping against my thighs, driving him deep inside. "Never been fucked like this before, have ya'? Ya' wouldn't be such a tease if you were being properly fucked."

Who did he think he was? And why the hell did it turn me on so much that he was right? I had never had sex anywhere but on a bed, a car, a park, or a public restroom and it never felt like this.

"I've had better," I taunted.

He snarled. "Eyes on me."

"No."

He pulled out just as I was about to come. At first I thought he was actually going to leave me this way, until he grabbed my arms and yanked me up off the table, lips and tongue pressing against mine.

"Look at me," he said again. And, finally, with him no longer inside me, I could. He blinked once, slowly, long dark lashes brushing against his cheek, and then said, "Ask me to make you come."

His tone was all wrong. It was almost a question, but his words were just like him—all bastard. I did want him to make me come. More than anything. But I'd be damned if I'd ever ask him for anything.

I dropped my voice and stared back at him. "You're a cunt, England."

His faint smile told me that whatever he'd needed from me, he got. I wanted to slam my knees up into his balls, but then I wouldn't get more of what I really wanted.

"Say please, Miss Knight."

"Please, go fuck yourself."

The next thing I felt was the cold window against my breasts, and I groaned at the intense contrast in temperature between it and his skin. I was on fire; every part of me wanted to feel his rough touch.

"At least you're consistent," he snarled into my ear before biting my shoulder. He kicked at my feet. "Spread your legs."

I parted my legs and without hesitation he pulled my hips back and reached between us before thrusting forward into me.

"You like the cold?"

"Yes."

"Devious, filthy girl. Ya’ like being watched, don't you?" he murmured, taking my earlobe between his teeth. "Ya’ love that all of Chicago can look up here and see you gettin' fucked, and you loving every minute of it with your pretty tits pressed against the glass."

"Stop talkin’, you're ruining it." Though he wasn't. Not even close. His deep voice was doing wicked things to me.

But he just chuckled in my ear and probably noticed the way I shivered at the sound. "Ya' want them to see you come?"

I groaned in response, unable to form words with each repeated thrust into me, pressing me further against the glass.  
"Say it. You want to come, Miss Knight? Answer me or I'll stop and make you suck me off instead," he hissed, driving his cock deeper and deeper inside me with every thrust.

The part of me that hated him was dissolving like sugar on my tongue, and the part that wanted everything he had to give me was growing, hot and demanding.

  
"Just tell me." He leaned forward, sucked my earlobe between his lips and then gave it a sharp bite. "I promise I'll give it to you."

"Please," I said, closing my eyes to shut out everything else and just feel him. "Please. Yes."

He reached around, moving his fingertips across my clit with the perfect pressure, the perfect rhythm. I could feel his sadistic smile press into the back of my neck, and when he opened his mouth and pressed his teeth to my skin, I was done for. Warmth spread down my spine, around my hips, and between my legs, jerking me back into him. My hands slammed against the glass, my entire body quaking from the orgasm that was rushing over me, leaving me gasping for air. When it finally subsided, he pulled out and spun me around to face him, ducking his head to suck my neck, my jaw, my lower lip.

"Say thank you," he whispered.

I dug my hands into his high-knot tugged hard on his hair, hoping I could get some reaction out of him, wanting to see if he was in control or delusional. What are we doing?

He groaned, leaning into my hands and kissing up and down my neck, pressing his erection into my stomach. "Now make me feel good."

I released one hand and brought it down to his cock and began stroking him. He was heavy, and thick, and perfect in my palm. I wanted to tell him, but I'd be damned if I ever let him know how amazing he felt. Instead, I pulled away from his lips, staring at him with hooded eyes.

"I'm gonna to make you come so hard you forget that you're supposed to be the world's biggest asshole," I growled, sliding down the glass before slowly taking his entire cock in my mouth and back against my throat. He tensed and let out a deep moan. I looked up at him, his palms and forehead resting on the glass, his eyes closed tight. He looked vulnerable, and he looked gorgeous in his abandon.

  
But he wasn't vulnerable. He was the biggest jerk on the planet and I was on my knees in front of him. No fucking way.

  
So instead of giving him what I knew he wanted, I stood up, pulled my skirt back down, and met his eyes. It was easier now, without him touching me and making me feel things he had no business doing.

  
The seconds ticked by, neither of us looking away.

"What the fuck do you think you're doing?" he rasped. "Get on your knees and open your mouth."

"Not a chance."

I pulled the front of my buttonless shirt together and walked out, praying my shaky legs wouldn't betray me. Grabbing my purse from my desk, I threw my blazer on, trying desperately to fasten the button with my trembling fingers. Mr. England still hadn't come out, and I ran to the elevator praying to God it would get there before I had to face him again.

I couldn't even let myself think about what happened until I was out of there. I'd let him fuck me, give me the most amazing orgasm of my life, and then I'd left him with his pants around his ankles in the company conference room with the worst case of blue balls known to any man. If this was someone else's life I would be high-fiving them so hard. Too bad it wasn't.

Shit.

The doors opened and I entered, quickly pushing the button and watching as each floor counted down. As soon as the elevator reached the lobby I raced out and down the hall. I briefly heard the security guard say something about working late, but I just waved and sped past him.

With each step the ache between my legs reminded me of the events of the last hour. As I reached my car I unlocked it with the remote, pulled open the door, and collapsed into the safety of the leather seats. I looked up at myself in the rearview mirror.

_What the hell just happened?_


	2. Chapter 2

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> No one leaves Pete England with a case of blue balls. And they certainly don’t get a way with it. Paige is in for a taste of her own medicine.

### What Goes Around

Christ. I'm a fuckin' fool.

I'd been starin' at my ceiling since I woke up thirty minutes ago. Brain: a mess. Dick: hard.

Well, hard again.

I scowled at the ceiling. It didn't matter how many times I'd have a wank after she left me last night, it never seemed to go away. And though I didn't think it was possible, it was worse than the hundreds of other times I'd woken up this way. Because this time, I knew what I was missing. And she hadn't even let me come.

Nine months. Nine bloody months of morning wood, wankin' off, and endless fantasies about someone I didn't even want. Well, no that wasn't completely true. I wanted her. I wanted her more than any woman I'd ever seen. The big problem was I also despised her.

And she despises me too. I mean, she really hated me. In all my twenty-four years, I had never met someone who pushed my buttons like Saraya Knight. Just her name made me twitch. The treacherous bitch. I stared down at where I tented my sheets. This appendage got me into this mess to begin with. I rubbed my hands across my face and sat up.

Why couldn't I just keep it in my fuckin' trousers? I'd managed for almost a year. And it had worked. I kept my distance, ordered her around, hell, even I'll admit I'd been a bastard. And then I just lost it. Fucksakes, all it took was one moment, sitting in that quiet room, her smell all around me and that skirt, her arse in my face. I snapped.

I was sure that if I just had her once, it would be disappointing and the wanting would be over. I'd finally have some peace. But here I was, in my bed, hard, as if I hadn't come in weeks. I looked at the clock, and it had only been four hours.

* * *

I took a quick shower, scrubbing myself roughly as if to remove any trace of her left from last night. This was going to stop, this had to stop. Peter England didn't act like some horny teenager, and I certainly did not fuck around in my office. The last thing I needed was a clingy woman ruinin' everythin'. I couldn't allow Miss Knight to have this control over me.

Everythin' was so much better before I knew what I was missing. For as awful as that was, this was a million times worse.

I was making my way into my office when she walked in. The way she left last night, practically sprinting out the door, I figured one of two scenarios awaited me. Either she would be making eyes at me, thinkin' that last night meant something, that we meant somethin'. Or she'd have my arse.

If word got out about what we'd done, not only could I lose my job, but I could lose everythin' I'd worked for. And yet, as much as I hated her, I couldn't see her doing something like that. If there was one thing I'd learned about her, it was that she was trustworthy and loyal. She might be a hateful shrew, but I didn't think she would throw me to the lions. She had worked for England Media Group since for as long as I've been around, and was a valued part of the company for a reason. Now she was only months from obtaining her MBA and would have her pick of jobs when she was ready. No way would she jeopardize that.

But I'll be damned if she didn't completely ignore me. She walked in wearing a black knee-length trench coat. It shielded whatever was beneath, but did a fantastic job showin' off those amazing legs.

Oh fuckin' hell . . . if she was wearin' those shoes, there was a good chance . . . No, not that dress. Please, for the love of God, not that dress. I knew for a fact there was no way I had the willpower for that shit today.

I glared at her as she hung her jacket in her closet and sat down at her desk.

Well, damn, that woman really was the biggest tease in the entire world.

It was the black dress. With a neckline that dipped down to accentuate the soft smooth skin of her neck and collarbone, and black fabric clingin' perfectly to those gorgeous tits, the dress was the bane of my existence, my heaven and hell wrapped in one delicious English package.

The hem fell just below her knees and it was the sexiest thing I had ever seen. It wasn't provocative in any way, but there was something about the cut and that goddamn black that had me going mental practically all day. And she always left her hair down when she wore it.

God, she pissed me off.

When she still didn't acknowledge me, I turned and stormed into my office, slamming the door behind me. Why was she still affecting me this way? I'd never had anyone or anythin' distract me from work, and I hated her for being the first. But part of me relished the memory of her victorious expression as she turned and left me gasping and practically begging her to suck me off. The girl had a spine made of steel.

I bit back a grin and focused on hating her instead.

Work. I would just focus on work and stop thinking about her. I walked over to my desk and sat down, trying to direct my attention to anything but thoughts of how amazing those lips felt around me last night.

Not conducive, Pete.

I flipped open my laptop to check my schedule for the day. My schedule . . . shit. The bitch had the most up-to-date version in her computer. Hopefully I wasn't missing any meetings this morning, because I was not calling Cunt Queen in here until I absolutely had to.

As I was going over a spreadsheet, a knock came at my door. "Come in," I called out. A white envelope was slammed down onto my desk. I looked up to see Miss Knight staring down at me with a defiantly crooked eyebrow. Without an explanation, she turned and walked out of my office.

I glared at the envelope, panicked. Likely it was a formal letter detailing my conduct and indicating her intent to file a harassment suit. I expected letterhead and her scribbled signature at the bottom of the page.

What I didn't expect was a sales receipt from an online clothing store . . . charged to the company credit card. I shot up out of the chair and raced out of my office after her. She was headed for the stairwell. Good. We were on the eighteenth floor, and nobody, besides maybe the two of us, ever used the stairs. I could scream at her all I wanted and no one would be the wiser.

The door closed with a heavy clang and her heels echoed their way down the stairs just in front of me.

"Miss Knight, where in the fuckin' hell do you think you're going?"

She continued walking without turning back to look at me. "We're out of coffee," she hissed. "So as your office girl, I'm going down to the café to retrieve some. Can't have you missing out on your caffeine fix."

How could someone so hot be such a bitch? I caught up to her on the landing between floors and grabbed her arm, pushing her against the wall. Her dark optics narrowed contemptuously at me, her teeth clenched in a hiss. I whipped the receipt up in front of her face as I glared back at her. "What is this?"

She shook her head. "You know, for such a pompous know-it-all, you really are a stupid son of a bitch sometimes. What does it look like? It's a receipt."

"I can see that," I growled through my teeth, crumpling the paper into my clenched fist. I pressed the sharp tip of it into the delicate skin just above her breast and felt my cock twitch when she gasped and her eyes dilated. "Why are you makin' clothing purchases on your company credit card?"

"Some bastard tore my blouse." She shrugged her shoulders and then leaned her face closer to me and whispered, "And my panties."

Damn it.

I took a deep breath through my nose and threw the paper to the floor, leaning forward and pressing my lips against hers and digging my fingers into her hair, pinning her body against the wall. My dick throbbed against her abdomen as I felt her hand mirror my own and grip my hair, fisting it roughly.

I pulled her dress up along her thighs and groaned into her mouth as my fingers once again found the lace edge of her thigh highs. She did this to torment me, she had to. I felt her tongue run over my lips as my fingertips brushed the warm and wet material of her panties. I clenched my hold around the fabric and gave it a rough tug.

"Make a note to order another pair then," I hissed and then pressed my tongue between her lips and into her mouth.

She groaned deeply as I thrust two fingers inside of her, and if it was possible, she was even wetter than she'd been last night. Seriously fucked-up situation we have goin' on here. She broke away from my lips with a gasp as I fucked her hard with my fingers, my thumb rubbing the taught bundle of nerves.

"Get your cock out," she said. "I need to feel you in me. Now."

I narrowed my eyes at her, trying to hide the effect her words had on me.

"Say please, Miss Knight."

"Now," she said more urgently.

"Demanding are we?"

She gave me a look that would shrivel the dick off a lesser man and I chuckled in spite of myself. Paige could hold her own.

"Good thing I'm feelin' rather generous."

I made quick work of my belt and pants before lifting her up and thrusting hard inside her. She was so slick with arousal, so tight, but able of taking inch of my length without complaints. Words escaped her lips, my hips moving of their own accord, snapping in rapid succession, until she was a whimpering mess. Christ, she felt amazing. Better than anythin'. It helped explain why I couldn't get her out of my head, and a small voice told me I might never get enough of this.

"So soaked," I mumbled.

She gasped and I felt her clench around me, her breath ragged. She bit into the shoulder of my jacket and wrapped her leg around me as I began pumping into her vigorously against the wall. Any moment someone could enter the stairwell and catch me fucking her, and I couldn't care less. I needed to get her out of my system.

The stairwell was filled with the wet sound of skin slapping against skin, and it was beautiful. She lifted her head from my shoulder and bit her way up my neck before taking my bottom lip between her teeth.

"I'm gonna come," she growled and tightened her leg around me to pull me deeper. "I'm gonna come, Pete."

Perfect.

I buried my face in her neck and hair to muffle the groan as I came hard and suddenly inside her, squeezing her ass in my hands. Pulling out before she could rub herself against me anymore, I put her down on unsteady legs.

She gaped at me, her look thunderous. The stairwell filled with a leaden silence.

"Really?" she said, exhaling loudly. Her head fell back against the wall with a dull thud.

"Thanks, that was fantastic." I found my pants down around my knees.

"You're an asshole."

"You've mentioned this," I murmured, looking down as I pulled up my zipper.

When I looked back up, she had straightened her dress, but she still looked beautifully disheveled, and part of me ached to reach forward and slide my hand against her, to make her come. But a larger part of me relished the angry dissatisfaction in her eyes. "What goes around comes around, so to speak."

"It's too bad you're such a horrible lay," she replied calmly. She turned to continue down the stairs but stopped abruptly, spinning back to meet my eye. "And it's a good thing I'm on the pill. Thanks for askin', asshole."

I watched her disappear out of sight down the stairs and growled as I walked back to my office. I landed in my chair with a loud huff, smoothing my hair before removing her destroyed panties from my pocket. I stared at the black silk fabric between my fingers for a moment, then opened my desk drawer and dropped them in to join the pair from last night.


End file.
